


another one bites the dust

by iwanttoseethestars



Series: assorted hannibal oneshots [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Canon Related, Cheeky puns, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, POV Third Person, Possibly Pre-Slash, Season/Series 01, Short One Shot, as per usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-21 16:02:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18705649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwanttoseethestars/pseuds/iwanttoseethestars
Summary: (or, 'hannibal plans to kill a man because he sneezed'.)





	another one bites the dust

Hannibal Lecter stands at the entrance of Hidden Room Rare Books, postured casually but with his bespoke three-piece telling a different story, that of a quiet determination.

The oaken, crooked shop before him holds a first edition of Shaler’s _The Masters of Fate; The Power of the Will_ , a medical text to be revered for its advocacy of infirm over pernicious ideals of the growing eugenics movement, which he had reserved over the phone a week ago after learning of its presence from a colleague whilst over in New York, regrettably unable to procure the piece at the time. It had taken a fair bit of negotiation, though not disproportionate for what he was asking, Hannibal had reasoned, and he is not known to beg.

With a small nod, he steps forwards and places his hand on the rusting golden doorknob, twists it. An old-style bell signals his entry. The shadow of a smile crosses his face; there is something about the rustic nature of the place that reminds him of a certain boat-fixing, lure-tying, dog-owning companion. He takes one brogue-step into the shop, and his previous contentment falters — the air is musty, ticklish in a way not inviting laughter but perhaps tears.

This, of course, is because of the state of cleanliness there: every surface on every shelf of every case is blanketed in dust. Being the man of old-world etiquette he is, though, Hannibal’s lips draw back upwards, pursed but to an acceptable degree. He spies a man in tweed — academic, not high society — stood at the front desk, the most put-together and polished thing there.

_Hm. It appears there is a misplacement of value afoot here._

Nonetheless, Hannibal, hands crossed gently against his front, draws the attention of the man, who smiles perhaps a little too eagerly but still genuinely. A possible misplacement of Hannibal’s judgement, then.

There is a sufficiently polite exchange over the book he wishes to acquire; the manager, Hannibal learns, his eyes widen in recognition, and he excuses himself to fetch the item from the basement. It’s a rather precious thing, and despite having a house and wardrobe and memory palace seemingly full of such wares to befit this category, the majority is but a front. Hannibal is a man who knows that precious things don’t often appear in pretty or conventional packages — without prompt, his mind drifts back to that companion who is pretty, yes, but so far from conventionality that Hannibal sometimes wonders, absentmindedly, if he is even real at all—

His thoughts are interrupted by the manager’s return. Hannibal smiles though, because, after all, he did not come here to ponder; this was something he could do perfectly well in his study. The manager returns this gesture, and Hannibal is once again amused at how easy it is for a man to placate or pacify another, even before anything appears to have happened whatsoever. The man in front of him is now showing him the book, taking the opportunity to explain some of its history, overeager again. His attitude certainly would not belong at one of Hannibal’s dinner parties.

Engaging in the standard affirmative cues at the correct intervals, he tunes out the man’s quick yet somehow droning voice — facts he has heard before, otherwise, how would he have gained an interest in such a text? — and subtly inspects the hardback himself. Slightly weathered edges, and of course browning, crisp pages, but from what he can see the printing and cover are all in order. Finally, the man in front of him decides upon extending the book towards him, but—

He draws a frighteningly drastic breath in, his eyes squeezing shut, and his hand jerks out reflexively as he shouts out a sneeze.

Hannibal’s teeth grate together, just a little. He dreads to see what might have become of the book held out to him only a second ago, but knows he must not abandon his purpose for being present in this respiratory nightmare a more forgiving man would deem ‘homely’.

He swivels on his heel fractionally, still maintaining his graceful, assured posture, which nearly withers when he sees the state of his potential purchase.

_The Masters of Fate_ is bent in two, its spine raised to reveal substantial wear in the bindings... as well as the not insignificant number of pages now spilled across the floor.

Hannibal has been holding a breath for half a minute, the guilty party naturally fussing and spluttering around him, yet his mind is working overtime.

The only visible indication of mental presence his body offers is a blink. No one could be blamed for not knowing this was the exact moment he had sealed another’s fate.

Hannibal exits the shop after a period of gracious tolerance towards its manager, settling upon a declination or several in the end; no, it was all right and no, he won’t be requiring a discount and _no_ , he shall regrettably leave the item there as he, surprisingly, does not himself know of anyone who would be able to repair such a thing. He doesn’t refuse his business card, though, oh no.

That would be _rude_.

Once outside, fresh air greeting him as enthusiastically as his companion’s dogs would their master, he can breathe again. He stops for a moment, appreciating the once mundane blessing — the catharsis like one might find gazing upwards in the Sistine Chapel, or in the last call of _Le veau d’or_ — and then starts walking, the opposite direction from his Bentley.

He thinks he will stop at somewhere with a new vacuum cleaner.

**Author's Note:**

> yo!
> 
> this one has a mildly interesting story to it, the unintentional prompt being the message: "Reading that ... turned all my brain cells into dust" and then "Imagine. Having dust in your brain. Sounds like it'd be a cause of death in a Hannibal ep tbh". from that, you may be able to work out Hanni's planni with that hoover >:D
> 
> and then it evolved (or arguably devolved) from what was meant to be a medium-long jokey scenario into THIS mess of a crack fic.
> 
> thank you so much for reading - your kudos are bursts of sunlight, and your comments open windows!
> 
> lotsa love,  
> author san x
> 
> P.S.: the location (my interpretation of Hidden Room Rare Books) was unintentionally inspired by Joe's workplace from 'You' on Netflix??? go watch that i guess!


End file.
